Giving a Gift
by tormented eyes
Summary: It's been exactly a year, two months, and three days since Mark moved into the loft. Roger decides it's time to give him a gift. What better time than today, Valentine's Day? PreRent.


**A/N:** I LIVE! -evil crackle- Ahem... So, seeing as I've been inactive for... quite awhile... I've decided to post this little something so my account won't hate me. It's an old thing I wrote, but I like it.

In other news, I have the second chapters to _Actual Reality _and _What Was Whe Name_ typed out. Just need to go over a few kinks and whatnot. Cheers.

**Disclaimer**: I make no profit of this. I own nothing. You know the drill. All mistakes are my own. PreRent.

* * *

He's late. Roger glared at the door to the loft. Of all days, he's late. _Probably stopped to film some old couple cuddling._ Roger thought with a smirk, momentarily forgetting his irritation. He crossed his arms, still glaring at the door.

Then, he heard a click. _Shit, he's here!_ Roger quickly picked up the newspaper and opened it to a random page just as the door opened.

Mark entered and was surprised to find the loft quiet. He peered over at the couch. Roger was there, just with a newspaper in his hands rather than a guitar. After putting down his camera bag, Mark made his way to the seemingly unaware Roger. After glancing at the paper, Mark cocked his head to the side.

"Roger? That paper's a week old." The smaller blonde stated, puzzled. Roger almost slapped himself.

"I know... I haven't read it yet." He replied, trying to keep his voice even. Mark stared at his best friend with a raised eyebrow.

"Um, okay." He shrugged and was about to leave when Roger grabbed his arm. "Ow! Let go!" The filmmaker tried to free himself from Roger's grasp, to no avail.

Roger grinned, that mischievous little grin that told you he was up to something. Mark was a little worried. "Nope, will not." Okay, now Mark was really worried.

Still grinning, the guitarist pulled a struggling Mark toward him. "Roger, what – ?" Mark blinked in surprise when a box was thrust before him. He held the small container dumbly in his hands. "Wha...?"

Roger sighed. "You're supposed to open it, Mark."

Mark glared at his roommate and proceeded to open the box. Inside, there was a sentence written in an all too familiar chicken scratch handwriting: _This is for you._ Mark furrowed his brow. "Uh, Roger, what does – !" The filmmaker gasped as Roger grabbed his waist and threw him on the couch.

"Shh..." Roger swiftly undid Mark's pants. "Just relax." Mark shuddered as Roger's calloused fingers made contact with his now bare skin. Those hands massaged his cock, sending jolts throughout his body. And he didn't know why.

"Roger, don't – !" Mark gasped once again as a hot, wet tongue flicked the tip of his dick. The filmmaker began to pant, the combination of that tongue and those hands making him shiver. He was becoming quite hard and...

"Oh, my God!" Mark clutched at the couch as Roger took him in his mouth. The smaller blonde's breathing became irregular. _Oh God,_ Roger's mouth was hot, sending flames to all of Mark's being. He groaned when that _fucking skillful_ tongue made circular motions around his cock.

_Fucking Christ!_ Mark involuntarily bucked his hips as Roger hollowed his cheeks to take him in deeper. The guitarist was now bobbing his head faster and sucking Mark's cock harder.

"Shit! Roger..." Mark moaned, unknowningly arching his back. "I can't... take this!" He moaned louder as Roger's pace quickened still. Mark wasn't going to make it. _Gotta – fuck! – gotta stop._ The filmmaker lifted his head to try to say something. But he couldn't.

Roger's emerald green eyes stopped him. The guitarist was looking right at him, watching Mark clutch the couch tightly, watching him arch his back in pleasure, watching as he moaned out Roger's name, and Mark couldn't take it. The gleam in Roger's eyes, the excitement he got in making Mark do these things, sent Mark over the edge. _Hard._

With a loud cry of Roger's name, Mark exploded his release into the guitarist's mouth. Breathing heavily, Mark came down from his electrifying high quietly. His face was red, not just because of what just happened but because Roger had _swallowed._ Mark just couldn't face him. He didn't have to.

Roger crawled up to Mark, kissing the filmmaker's forehead. "Happy Valentine's Day, Mark. This was your valentine." Mark smiled slowly.

Then, he blinked. "It's Valentine's Day?" He asked, confused. Roger smirked. _So like Mark._

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